Chapter Twelve

Kelly sank back into the seat, squeezing her thighs together. Fuck, she could feel how wet she still was, how wet she’d gotten, all just from getting kissed by Ivan fucking Sokolov.

She was not some blushing virgin or randy club girl who was looking for a night of fun. She didn’t need a bad boy to help her feel like she was living her life on the edge. Her brother was clinging to life support after a mob hit, her life was dangerous and ‘bad’ enough, thanks. And she definitely wasn’t desperate enough for a good fuck that she was just going to spread her legs for a guy no matter how good of a kisser he was.

But, fuck, the way his voice had gone all dark and sinful, the way his hands had grabbed at her, hauling her leg up, rutting into her. She wasn’t sure he’d even been aware of how wild he was driving her, how much she’d wanted to just writhe against him, find the angle that rubbed just right against her clit and fuck herself on him until she came.

She hadn’t been kissed that hard or that desperately in ages. She’d been a little busy helping her father run things and helping out her brothers—not that she ever got a word of thanks but whatever—to go out and find some anonymous guy to help her out. She’d made good friends with her vibrator instead.

Besides, when your family was involved in things like smuggling and controlled a part of the docks, you couldn’t exactly just go out and find some guy at a coffee shop to date.

That was all it had to be—just pent up frustration from how long it had been. Ivan wasn’t special or anything. They’d been sniping at each other all evening, it only made sense that as two red-blooded adults they’d find another way to vent that frustration out on each other.

But, fuck, she couldn’t erase the memory of the way he’d kissed her, sliding his tongue into his mouth like he owned her. She couldn’t forget the way he’d wrapped her thigh up around his waist and thrust into her, like he was already thinking about all the ways he could get her screaming on his cock.

She could’ve done it. Could’ve hauled him into the back of the car and spread her legs, told him to make it good or he’d get kicked out while the car was still moving. He’d have done it, too, if she said it with her eyes hooded and a challenge in her voice. Ivan didn’t seem like the kind of person to back down from a challenge, any challenge, but especially not one like that.

But could’ve didn’t equal should’ve. There was no way that would have not blown up in her face. They couldn’t actually stand each other. They’d barely stumbled into a truce halfway through dinner and she suspected that for all her protestations and logic, he still thought she might be the traitor.

Kelly kind of wanted to punch something in frustration. She wasn’t supposed to be attracted to the guy, for crying out loud. It could only complicate an already delicate situation—she didn’t care what her father said.

And she wasn’t about to let someone who thought she was a traitor go around doing the investigation all by himself. She’d get him his papers, all right, but she was going to do a little digging of her own. What her father—and Ivan—didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. And maybe, even, she’d figure it out fast enough that the whole thing would be solved, and she could get Ivan out of her hair.

And if she did get home and pulled out her vibrator and thought of dark hair and a forceful mouth and that thick, dark accent—well, that was just between her and her vibrator, wasn’t it? It was just getting the guy out of her system.

It didn’t actually mean anything.